


looking back and moving forward

by guardianoffun



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Friends With Benefits, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Moving On
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 09:30:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22434088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guardianoffun/pseuds/guardianoffun
Summary: On a trip out to Morse's old hometown, they take a detour. Shirley gets a chance to meet Morse's parents, in a sense. A warm afternoon spent in a cemetery wasn't what she had planned, but maybe this is good for him.
Relationships: Endeavour Morse & Shirley Trewlove
Kudos: 24





	looking back and moving forward

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).

> inspired by jasmiinitee's whol set of stories set in a world where shirley and morse continued to be sort-of-friends-with benefits type thing - go and read them all their work is 10/10 will make u feel emotions in all sorts of ways...
> 
> anyways i just wanted morse to have some Feelings about his family for once. idk. i cried whilst writing this so thats what i get for writing at 3am lol 
> 
> WARNINGS for discussions of long since character deaths and sad stuff like that, also dead george is mentioned once or twice

Shirley hadn’t been sure what to expect when Morse stopped the car an hour or so out from his sisters home. The road ahead of them stretched on for miles still, but a small lane jutted out and curved off into who-knows where, and he seemed torn between them. Then he glanced at her, sideways, and hesitated. She waited for his mouth to catch up with his brain. 

“Do you… would you want to take a little detour?” he said, thumbs twitching against the steering wheel. She glanced at her watch. They were only going around for tea, Morse’s nieces’ birthday, and he had roped her into being his plus one. She had met Joyce enough times now that their cover had mostly been blown, but the pair had become friends in their own right. Bonding over their shared miserable git, she supposed. 

“Depends where it is,” she said, but then shook her head. Aside from the odd awful opera, Morse had become fairly decent at working out what escapades she liked. “Wait, no, go on. Surprise me.” 

They drove on, Morse’s face a little smug as she peered around every bend, curious. It wasn’t often they visited anywhere in Lincolnshire that wasn’t Joyce’s. Perhaps some old haunts, a pub perhaps. An old friend? The road gave little away, just houses and the odd corner shop every few streets or so. They passed a school, red brick and ancient, and she wondered if it had been his. Then the houses petered out, fanning out into wide spaces. Roofs were higher, gardens larger. Then nothing, empty space for long stretches, dotted with grey and white. Rocks? Then the wrought iron gates came into view, and Shirley realised. A cemetary. Her smile and curiosity faded a little. 

She wasn’t entirely sure why they were here. Morse never spoke much about his parents, an anecdote here and there but nothing solid. His father had died quite a while ago now, he’d been a constable then. She knew he had lost his mother long before that. 

A bittersweet sort of pain struck Shirley, and the threat of tears sprang up on her from nowhere. She had no reason to mourn these people herself, so it seemed a little misplaced. But she realised, looking at Morse who was slowing the Jag down to a crawl as they pulled into the carpark, maybe it wasn’t sadness. It was the overwhelming realisation that Morse trusted her with this. He could have snuck off to do this, after dinner, maybe he and Joyce could have come together whilst Shirley minded the little ones. Instead he had brought her here, somewhere wholly un-Morse like. This was the rare side of Morse, the one behind the big brainy bravado, behind even the morose drunk, this was just Morse, the man who smiled at daft jokes when he thought nobody was looking and made breakfast in bed when the mood struck him. This was Morse with his guard down, willingly. 

As they left the car, Morse leant back and pulled a bouquet of flowers from the backseat. Shirley had assumed they were for Joyce, but realised now Morse had planned for this, or some version of it all along. That only made the lump in her throat bigger. 

They walked in near enough silence. Morse’s fingers found hers at one point, hands swinging between them. The brush of his thumb across her knuckles felt like a thank you. The air was warm, the sun bright. Some way off in the distance, another someone was being laid to rest, mourners in their blacks holding one another up. Yet the day seemed no darker for it. A good day for it, Shirley thought. 

The Morse’s were some ten minute walk up a gravel path. She spotted a few at first, from centuries past, the dates creeping up as they came up the path to the most recent in the plot, tucked into the shade of a young oak tree. Smooth stone, quite similar, but she thought that had more to do with fitting the pattern than anything else. Both had wreaths on them, but Constance Morse’s marker was a lot more crowded. Then Shirley read the inscription. 

“Oh, Morse, why didn’t you say?” 

She had passed 33 years ago, almost to the day. The anniversary had been last Wednesday. Morse’s hand tightened around hers. 

“What would you have said?” he said lightly. 

“Sorry, I suppose,” she offered back. Morse turned to her and smiled softly. 

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, dear. She’s gone, has been for a while. I just,” he looked down at the flowers in his hand and bit his lip. “Just thought I should stop by. Haven’t been in a while.” 

Shirley waved her free hand across the gathering of flowers. 

“Someone has.” Morse’s face split then, into something bigger than a smile. 

“She was well loved, by a lot of people, my mum. Very nice woman. You would have liked her.” 

Shirley pressed herself against his arm, her hand wrapping behind his back. 

“I’m sure I would have, Morse.” They stayed that way for a while, Shirley holding Morse as he stood. He was looking at the headstone, but he was somewhere else entirely. Down the road, in the house he grew up in she imagined, thinking back on the precious few years he’d had with his mother. She was happy to let him stand and remember for all the time he needed. 

There was an awkward moment where he took a half-step forward, and Shirley was so lost in her own thoughts, he almost dragged her forward to. They chuckled as they righted themselves, and Shirley watched him bend to rest the flowers on the stone. His hands lingered on it as he pushed himself back up, long fingers tracing the decorative lines etched into it. He ran the pads of his fingers across her name. 

The pain in Shirley’s throat returned suddenly. As he stood, she looked toward his father’s grave and nodded. 

“Do you have…” she trailed off. It was quite obvious he wasn’t hiding anymore flowers on his person, but perhaps he had a few words to say, or a moment he wanted with his father. He looked affronted for a moment, then patted himself down. 

“No, I wasn’t… I didn’t plan on,” his mouth scrunched into that thoughtful frown of his, and then he laughed. “Actually, hold on. There is something.” He took out his keys and waved them in the direction of the car. 

“Back in a mo,” he said, heading back down the path again. Shirley watched him go, the easy steps he took back towards the car. Something about Lincolnshire always seemed to make him a little lighter on his feet. 

Shirley wasn’t dressed much for a cemetery, an awful lot of colour in her blouse and trousers, but it felt quite fitting amongst the colourful splashes of flowers around her. Deciding Morse would be gone for some time on his little walk, Shirley gently stepped from the path and took up a seat beside Constance Morse’s headstone. She crossed her arms on her knees, fingers already combing through the grass, absently twisting it between her fingers. 

She had no firm beliefs in death really, but thought that till one theory was proved right, they all had as good a chance as any. Morse might not be one for talking to ghosts, but it had always struck Shirley as a nice idea. It gave her something to fill the silence with at least. 

“It’s good to finally meet you Mrs. Morse. I’d say I’d heard a lot about you, except Morse never says much if I’m honest. A shame really, I think it would do him good.” That was true. Not that he spent his days sad and morbid about his parents, but it did seem to catch up to him sometimes. She smiled. 

“I think of lot of things would do him good. A wardrobe change for one, have you seen the god awful things he calls trousers? I’ve been taking them in slowly you know, when he’s not looking. Might throw them out if he thinks they don’t fit,” she laughs. “I know he’s not really my husband, but honestly, what will people think if I let him wander about like that. He’ll never make inspector dressed like that.” 

At the thought of her not-so-husband, Shirley’s eyes drifted to her hand. They had always laughed, after all of it, that the two of them were never technically told they were off the case. Never officially divorced, they liked to say. Sometimes when they went out, she’d dig out the cheap ring she’d had, and flash it about. Convince the waiter they were newlyweds, it often got them a free glass of bubbly. Once he’d pulled it out and proposed; they managed to get a whole cake that time. 

She found herself telling Constance these stories, laughing to herself as she rattled off tales of their misadventures, of their struggled over Christmas with her parents, that sort of thing. Saying it aloud, she realised just how daft the two of them must seem. But that was them, she supposed. She’d have it no other way. 

She knew Morse had reappeared before he realised she knew. She smiled down at the headstone and pressed a hand to the marble. 

“He’s alright, you know? Your son. Bit of an ass sometimes, but on the whole, pretty good. Smart. Kind of funny. A good friend, even if he doesn’t think so. I know he misses you, both of you I reckon. Just doesn’t say it much. You probably worry about him, Mrs. Morse. Well, don’t, not anymore. I’ve got him.”

He could probably hear her now, and that made her eyes sting with tears. There were some things Morse made it impossible to say, but his mother was a lot easier to talk to.

“I do love him, I promise. He’s very dear to me. I know what we have isn’t  _ normal _ but he’s the closest thing I have to… well anyone. I hope he knows that. I’d be lost without him sometimes. And him me, I guess. I think we’re good for each other. I’ll take care of him, Constance. Always, don’t worry.” 

The footsteps that had been slowly creeping up behind her stilled. 

“You know she can’t hear you,” he said, with a voice so thick, Shirley had to check it was even him. Squinting over her shoulder, she saw him standing there with tears lining his face. Seeing them, and his face as he tried to tell her  _ ghosts aren’t real  _ made her smile, and then laugh, and then cry all at once. He cracked a grin and dropped down beside her, the pair of them looking like wet-eyed fools. He dug a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it into her hand, using the back of his hand to scrub away his own tears. 

“You never know, Morse,” she chided as their laughter faded. “If she  _ is _ here, somehow… I want her to know.” 

He nudged her arm with his elbow. 

“Know what?” She leant over and ran a hand through his unruly hair. 

“That’s you’re doing alright. That I’m keeping an eye on you for her.” 

Morse sighed softly. 

“She really would have loved you, I think,” he said, leaning in to her touch. He watched her for a moment, looked somewhere deep into her eyes, then tilted his head to kiss her hand. She held it there for a moment, let Morse’s lips ghost across her palm in some silent words not meant for her ears.   
When he pulled back, Shirley nodded to whatever he had dropped in the grass beside them. 

“Is that for your dad?” He laughed again then, a deep and wonderful sound. 

“Suppose so,” he held it out towards her. A bottle of ale, torn from a six pack she assumed. She snorted, handing it back to him. He shrugged. 

“One of the few things I think we’d have in common nowadays,” he glanced skywards, resting back on his elbows. “If he’s still around I’m sure he’ll appreciate the joke.” he reached out and tapped the cap against his father's headstone, popping the lid. 

“Morse!” Shirley admonished, hand going out to buff out any potential scratches. He only laughed again, and it struck Shirley then that it was the most he’d laughed in a while; here of all places. What a strange, but not unwelcome, turn of events. 

Between them they shared the bottle, and a few more stories. Morse about his mother and father, the good times and the bad. He said it all with no real sorrow in his eyes, just a warm sort of reminiscence. 

They started wandering back sometime later, as the sun began dropping in the sky. Morse said nothing, but Shirley bid his parents goodbye. He asked her, as they walked, if she really did believe in ghosts, or heaven, or any of that. She had to think. It was hard to pinpoint what it was that had her spilling feelings to the dead. It wasn’t a new thing. Her mother had taken her to her grandmothers grave and they’d always spoken there as if she were still there. She did it even now, when she visited alone. When she was in Oxford, she’d found herself sitting beside George more than once or twice, telling him what had changed in the years he had been gone. It made her feel lighter somehow, the idea that maybe someone out there was listening, even when it felt like nobody else was. 

She said this all, and Morse sobered, the joke about spirits dying on his lips. She shrugged though, unoffended. Morse wasn’t the type to believe in anything, let alone ghosts. 

They were nearing the car, but it didn’t stop her grabbing his hand again, and hanging on tight. It was alright, she had enough belief for the both of them. 

**Author's Note:**

> ??/ yay?


End file.
